The Hands of Time
by LadyInglorion
Summary: It has been 20 years since Watson and Holmes collaborated on the Moriarty case. Now, Watson has a family, and he believes himself free of adventuring with his old comrade. But his oldest daughter, Kristin, has other plans.
1. Prologue

The Hands of Time

Prologue

The grandfather clock in the corner of the burgundy room ticked away the seconds methodically. A small, ragged house mouse scurried across the baseboard and through a hole in the corner, clutching an equally small square of cheese in his undersized jaws. Tick, tick. Moonlight streamed into the spacious apartment, lighting up the sterling silver pocket watch resting on the mahogany desk residing in the far left corner of the room. Dried plaster beside the fireplace crunched underfoot. Tick, Tick. Sounds from the street – crowded even at this hour – echoed throughout the room, sounds of annoyed automobile drivers shouting at rowdy teenagers, the teenagers jeering back, challenging the well-to-do to interrupt their jovial games of cat-and-mouse, king of the hill, and midnight races. Tick, Tick. Papers blew off Dr. John Watson's desk as a draft swept in from the open window, their parchment smell washing across the room. A woman cried out in agony, and Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes. "Hickory, dickory dock," he murmured.

The apartment of Dr. Watson was rank with sweat, panic, pain, and blood. The doctor and his wife were in their bedroom, along with Mrs. Hudson. Holmes lingered in John's office, quietly observing the scene down the hall without actually being present. Mary screamed again, and Holmes closed his eyes, using his senses to bring the room into sharper focus. "A mouse ran up the clock."

Mary lay upon the four-poster bed that she usually shared with John, tears raining from her eyes, mixing with the sweat coating her cheeks and shoulders. John stood to her right and Mrs. Hudson at the foot of the bed – Holmes could tell by the volume of their voices as they reached him. Tick, Tick. The smell of blood came to him sharply, accompanied by the smell of booze. He tipped his head with a short, flickering smile, acknowledging Dr. Watson's drinking habit nonchalantly. Mary cried out for a third time. Tick, Tick. Holmes heard Mrs. Hudson mumble gentle, encouraging words, and Watson followed suit, but their combined efforts did nothing to soothe Mary's tears. Tick, Tick.

"She's almost here, dearie!" cooed Mrs. Hudson, massaging Mary's swollen stomach tenderly. "I can see 'er head now!"

Mary screamed, the loudest sob yet, and even the stoic Sherlock Holmes winced and opened his eyes. The scene as perceived by his senses was lost to him amid Mary's yelling for several moments, the only noise being her cries and the infernal ticking of that damned clock. He clenched his eyes shut once more, attempting not to drown in the onslaught of noise as Mary delivered the couple's first child. Tick, Tick. The screams grew ever louder. Tick, Tick. Holmes covered his ears. Tick, Tick. Mary's screams went on. Tick, Tick, even through the barrier created by his hands.

"Mary, it's a girl!"

Holmes leaped at the clock, wrenching the glass panel open and seized the swinging pendulum in his left hand. He grabbed Dr. Watson's leather trench coat from the mahogany desk and balled it up, shoving it inside the casement, jamming the pendulum to the left side of the clock. Holmes took a half-step back, releasing both the jacket and the pendulum. A sleeve tumbled out, and he hastily kicked it back in before slamming the glass panel closed. The ticking had ceased, as did the time. Holmes stared intently at the clock, only seconds away from striking one o'clock in the morning.

"Holmes!"

At the sound of his name, the genius detective turned to face Watson, who wore an expression mixed with disgust and exaltation.

"The clock _nearly _struck one, and the mouse already left," Holmes stated matter-of-factly. "Hickory dickory dock!"

"Holmes - " Watson started to say, and then shook his head. He was too elated to ask what his best friend was talking about. He changed his tone. "Holmes!" he cried, striding towards the shorter man and clasping his forearm. "Mary's had her baby! She is a girl, you must come see!"

Holmes felt a twinge inside himself, and he sighed.

"I believe congratulations are in order," he said, removing his arm from Watson's and opening a sliding drawer in the mahogany desk. Inside were several bottles of finely aged wine, one of which he removed. He wrapped his right hand around the cork and twisted, and then gasped in pain as his shoulder recalled the ghosts of the shadowy game he had played with Moriarty. Two years after the fact, he still maintained a weakened right arm. Watson had told him that he would probably never regain full strength and usage as he had had prior to the injury, what with damage not only being done to the muscle but the joint itself. But still, Holmes tried.

Watson's face crinkled in sympathy.

"Here," he offered, taking the glass bottle from his friend and twisting the cork off.

"No need for that," Holmes stated, waving Watson away when he attempted to hand him back the bottle. "I'll be on my way."

Watson's mouth fell open in confusion. He looked at the wine bottle and then back at Holmes.

"But you've only just arrived! And it was YOU who proposed this toast…"

"No matter," Holmes said uncomfortably, glancing around the room once more as he shrugged into his coat and top hat. "I'm sure that you don't need me. I trust that Mrs. Hudson and yourself have things under control. I'm off to catch the 2:00 train to Windsor. Solitarily."

"Why..?" Watson demanded indignantly, eyeing Holmes with contempt.

"There is a most curious case that I shall be concluding tonight. Independently," Holmes replied, adjusting his hat upon his head while casting resentful glances in Watson's direction.

It was on the tip of his tongue, but Watson restrained himself from asking what the nature of the case was. Instead, he shook his head.

"Fine," he muttered, slamming the wine bottle down on the desk with finality. "You go on one of your mad goose chases, then. Would it kill you to take one night off? To do something for me for once?"

"My apologies, John. But matters are urgent. My suspect leaves England on the morrow and I'm not precisely interested in tailing him to Scotland without help." Holmes cast another glance at Watson, but the doctor wasn't looking. Holmes paused in the doorway.

"Go ahead then," Watson stated coldly, gazing out the moonlit window. "I'm not stopping you." He shook his head, and then left the room to return to his wife and new baby girl.

"John – " Holmes called out, taking a step back into the office. Suddenly, as if it was a bubble popping, the door of the grandfather clock sprang open just as Holmes passed, and the crumpled leather coat tumbled out, entangling itself around Holmes' ankles and sending him tumbling to the floor. He swore under his breath, kicking the coat away before getting to his feet. The pendulum, free of its fetters, began to swing, and the ticking noise resumed. Holmes got to his feet, looked around the room once more, and exited without a backwards glance.


	2. Chapter 1 Eighteen Years Later

Chapter 1 – Eighteen Years Later

"Kristin, how many times must I tell you, young ladies wear _dresses!_ Not those wretched slacks that you _insist_ upon degrading yourself in."

"Mother," Kristin Watson responded coldly. "How many times must I tell you, that I have a much greater field of motion to move about in whilst wearing pants that is required of my day-to-day activities?"

Mary Watson pursed her lips and clenched her fist tightly around the wooden spoon she was using to mix bread dough with. Her soft red hair was tied above her head in a loose bun, and a few strands fell limply around her face, making her appear younger than her actual age of forty. Laugh-lines reminiscent of earlier years framed her mouth, and crows feet crinkled away from her eyes, but they did nothing to dampen her kind, gentle beauty. Her eyes were still sapphire blue, just as they had been the day she and John had met, though her hips carried slightly more weight than that earlier time in her life. She was clothed in a flowing, elegant navy blue gown that complimented her eyes, and an apron to impede flecks of batter from splattering her full chest.

"Kristin, you are well aware that your 'day-to-day' activities are inappropriate," Mary said gently, choosing not to look at her daughter.

"Inappropriate!" Kristin responded indignantly. "Inappropriate? Would you say it was inappropriate of me to intercept the packaged bomb sent by the McAllisters after dad lost their son in the emergency room? Would you say it was inappropriate of me to rescue Aaron when he was about to be attacked in the alleyway? Would you say that – "

"Kristin, please!" Mary cried, whirling around to face her daughter with tears in her eyes. "Enough!"

Kristin was on her feet now, breathing heavily with her cheeks flushed, but her mood softened with the arrival of Mary's tears. She sighed.

"Mother," she began slowly. "I'm eighteen now. I can make decisions for myself regarding my actions."

Mary simply stared at Kristin for several moments. She then shook her head with a sigh and turned back to her cooking project.

"I just don't understand," she whispered.

Kristin shook her head as well, taking a deep breath.

"I'm going out," she said stiffly, grabbing a blue felted coat from the hall tree and a matching toboggan.

"Not dressed like that, you're not!" Mary shouted, hoping in vain that for once Kristin would listen to her.

"Bye," Kristin shouted, and was gone with the slamming of the oaken front door.

"Please do not use such slang language!" Mary shouted, but her eldest child was already far out of hearing range. Mary sank into one of the nearby chairs, still clutching the spoon tightly. She was breathing hard, her frustration leaking out in every deep, heavy breath. She had tried since Kristin was born to raise her into a beautiful, well-mannered young lady. While she had accomplished the beauty aspect, Mary would hardly call her well mannered and ladylike. She was always rambunctious and curious; obsessively so. At age two, she had figured to unlock every door in the house, and Mary and John would often find her covered in mud as she dug up earthworms, beetles, and other arachnids and insects between the broken cobblestones behind their flat. Once she was taught to read, Kristin never stopped, and would often – when forced to attend – show up at lavish parties with a several books in her hand, much to the dismay and embarrassment of her parents. As she grew older, she began taking up new habits that were even more unsavory. Kristin would leave the house in men's clothing and would run along the river, for no apparent reason, and would often go to the roof where John or Mary would find her doing push-ups, repeatedly lifting heavy objects to build muscle, and leaping from rooftop to rooftop with a copy of John's military training routine close by. She never missed a day, regardless of the weather or her physical state.

By the time she was sixteen, she was fluent in French and German, and was studiously teaching herself several African dialects. Her bedroom was cluttered with books discussing scientific theories and discoveries, books regarding the study of psychology, and countless stacks of mystery novels. Dresses sewn of the finest silk were thrown into the washbasin to make room in her closet for numerous experiments and creations, including a functioning model train set run off of electricity, and an enormous clock that spanned three walls with cogs and gears anxiously ticking away the time night and day. When she wasn't outside gallivanting across, London, she was usually there, often staring with rapt fascination at her clock. Mary had tried to teach her how to sew, how to take tea like a lady, how to speak politely to gentlemen, and other aspects of feminine Victorian living. But she wouldn't have any of it. Kristin chose to follow a path of bizarreness and knowledge, of science and random trivia, in everything but what defined Victorian womanhood. It almost reminded her mother of – no. Mary squeezed her eyes closed and shook her head, refusing to let the thought even cross her mind. Even Kristin had more class than _him._

Mary stood, skirts swirling around her ankles and returned to her baking with a grimace. She would talk to John when he arrived home. Though it didn't really help the problem, talking to her husband always helped her feel better. She let a small smile cross her face, and drifted into happy thoughts of John and the rest of the family, letting her oldest daughter slip from her mind like a needle slipped through cloth.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Kristin strode through the back alleys of London, large blue eyes open and alert. She saw everything; from the old beggar man's concealed cavalry scabbard beneath his rags, from the asymmetrical cobblestone that stretched for miles, from the priest residing in the church greedily counting his counterfeit income, to the abandoned doll lying face down in the gutter. The scents wafting from the bakery across the street told her she was entering the Dover St. market heading west, exactly where she wanted to be. If her timing was precise – and she was always meticulously precise when it came to the time – she was exactly five minutes ahead of schedule. She purchased a bag of honey-roasted almonds from a street vendor so as not to appear conspicuous and leaned against one of the towering brick buildings – a bank, to be exact – and waited.

The person she was waiting for materialized from the crowd just as she had anticipated, accurately appearing at exactly 6:34 P.M. Kristin pushed away from the wall, stumbling into the street in front of him. She let out a small, girlish cry as she fell, landing stomach down in the middle of the road, almonds flying everywhere. People hastened out of her way, but her target stopped, seeing as he was the closest to her, and extended his hand.

"Ma'am?" he questioned in a gruff voice. "Are you alright?"

Kristin looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes.

"I… I think so!" she stuttered, taking his hand and helping herself to her feet. She brushed herself off, blinking shyly at the middle aged Asian man whom she had intercepted. He was tall with short dark hair, and he was dressed in a clean, pressed black pinstripe suit. He regarded her anxiously, and then glanced at his watch.

"Well, then, I shall be on my way, if you'll excuse me," he said in a clipped, formal accent.

"Wait!" Kristin cried out, voice tenure waxing a whine as she reached out to grab the man's arm. "I'm very poor, you see, and those almonds were the sole dinner I've had in a week! Would you be so kind as to replace them for me? It would positively be the greatest favor I could ask of any one man." Kristin looked at her feet, casting her eyes upward through her long dark lashes timidly. The businessman sighed, glancing at his watch once more.

"Very well, I will oblige you."

Kristin broke into a wide, dazzling grin.

"Thank you, sir! Thank you! It's that stand, right over there…"

Kristin watched as he stepped into a line that was several feet in length and then backed away, as silently as a mouse. With equal stealth, she turned and hurriedly paced east on Dover St., shedding her blue garments into a nearby open manhole. Without breaking stride, she reached into her small leather satchel and retrieved several bobby pins, a rubber band and a hat. She twisted her short brown hair into a small bun on top of her head, gathered her bangs into a single tress and pinned them flat against her head, and then donned a plain brown cap of Scottish origin, perfectly concealing her former female identity behind a male façade. She seized a stack of newspapers from a nearby ledge and began to jog, shouting, "Extra, Extra! Read all about it!" Only once did she cast a glance over her shoulder to find the man she'd previously stopped, who was now standing in front of the bank, a perplexed look upon his aged face. Kristin turned and continued jogging, all the while shouting out cries for the newsprint.

When she reached her destination, she threw the newsprint aside and, after a quick glance around the vicinity, slipped into a back door of the Royal Hotel in the center of London. She scrubbed the dirt and grime from her hands and face under a leaky faucet and tossed her cap aside. She quickly shed her dirty street clothes and switched into a hotel uniform, once again digging inside her small purse. Without taking too much care, she applied powdery makeup, eye shadow, and sticky red lipstick, and admired herself in her pocket mirror, if only for a moment. Her appearance was that of a whore, just as she had hoped. She blinked at herself, and then set off, shoving her previous garments aside. She checked her watch nervously. Two minutes ahead of schedule.

Kristin proceeded upstairs, allowing her eyes to glaze over as she joined the throng of people flocking through the entranceway of the Royal. Signs directed her to her next destination; the Ghirardelli Conference Hall, several flights up. After climbing up the first flight, she waited, leaning against the marble walls of the hotel, giggling and waving to distinguished looking men, doing everything in her power to fit the part. Finally, she spotted her next target; a young man with startlingly blonde hair and a thin, lean frame. He had a clipped face, with chiseled cheekbones and sharp, piercingly blue eyes. Two gruff men flanked him, both weighing twice the weight of the first, obviously only there for protection. Kristin waited for them to pass, and then abandoned her post on the wall to follow the threesome. When the reached the third floor, they stopped, and she spun behind a pillar to listen.

"You, take this to the window and wait. You can get there from this balcony. You, come with me."

The bigger man could be heard to lumber off, and the cleanly kept gentleman and the other entered the conference chamber together. Kristin ducked out from the pillar and followed the sir directed to wait upon the balcony. As they exited the hotel, the cold winter air hit Kristin like a blast of icy water, and she nearly coughed as it washed over her face and into her nose and throat. She squinted against the chill and stepped outside, feeling goose bumps rise on her arms and legs. The guard had stopped, and was presumably positioned where the first gentleman had indicated. Kristin gulped, and then whistled.

"Yoo, hoo!" she called out and the man turned around, obviously startled by her appearance. Behind him was a half erected sniper's rifle, pointed directly at the Ghirardelli Conference Room window. She sashayed toward him, done-up eyes batting in the moonlight. He was larger than she had expected, and she mentally grimaced. There were tables and chairs placed randomly across the marble balcony of the hotel, empty flowerpots angling from the windows, wooden grids dividing the windows into rigid squares. A bird alighted upon the marbled railing and cawed nervously, water dripped from a leaky gutter twenty-six feet above, Kristin's corset stretched tight as she took deep breaths in and out as she all but skipped toward the big man.

"Whatever are you doing out here on such a cold night?" she asked lightly, closing the distance between them. The man cleared his throat.

"Nothin', mind your own business," he said stiffly. Kristin widened her eyes naively, blatantly ignoring his request.

"Its frightfully chilly out her tonight, don't you think?" She shivered, dancing so close that he might have touched her. She was certain now that his full attention was trained on her delicately swaying form.

"Yeah," agreed the man, hunger creeping into his voice. It was not hard to deduce that he was not the brightest of chaps. " 'S pretty cold." He eyed Kristin with interest. "Maybe you could warm up if you came over here."

Kristin smiled radiantly.

"Of course!" she retorted. "Why didn't I think of that? Oh, right." In one fluid, quick movement, Kristin reached into her corset and removed a derringer, pulling the hammer back in the same motion. The man's expression of desire melted into utter surprise, and he took a step backward, raising his hands uncertainly.

"I've been following you and your gang for several weeks, and I know that you certainly did not invite Mr. Wooshou here to close a business deal. Mr. Harris, your employer, is his adopted son, and in Wooshou's will, his enormous estate is left to him. You invited him here to kill him. Didn't you."

"Look, I don't want no trouble…" the big man said anxiously.

"Oh, but you've walked straight into it, haven't you?" Kristin stated coolly. "Regardless of whether I caught you in the act or not, Harris never meant for you to escape. He meant for you to go to prison in his stead, so that he could play the role of the mourning relative. That's why the bomb you were meant to ignite would also maim him as well. Good thing that I won't let that happen."

"Who are you?" the big man answered, face awash with fury.

"That's on a need to know basis," Kristin replied. "And you certainly do not need to know."

"Neil? What's going on here?"

Kristin whirled around to the sound of a third voice. Mr. Harris stood on the entrance to the balcony, a shocked look darting cross his face.

"Ahh, Mr. Harris, so nice of you to join us!" Kristin called, only seconds before the large body guard called Neil leapt on her back from behind.

Kristin let the momentum of the large body carry her forward, and she somersaulted, prying the man called Neil from her back like a banana peel. He groaned as Kristin landed on her feet and he face down on the cold stone balcony. She placed a sharp high heel on the back of his head, grinding his face into the ground. A gunshot rang out and she dropped to the ground in order to evade it, and then dove behind one of the heavy wooden tables, heaving it over in her wake. Harris was shooting his own derringer now, four simultaneous shots blasting into the hardwood surface one after the other. Kristin wrapped her hands around a nearby chair, jumped to her feet and swung it in a semicircle. She felt it collide with Neil, who once again fell to the ground with a moan. She dropped behind her table once more as Harris released another round of bullets toward her. She glanced around, firing several shots straight into the glass window of the conference room beside the abandoned rifle. The glass shattered instantaneously, and she began to roll the round shield that was once a table toward the open frame. All the while, gunfire rained against the side facing her attackers. She reached the window and looked up. There was a space of about a yard in which she would be as good as dead if she exposed herself. She needed a distraction, one that she found in the decimated flowerpot mere inches away. She reached up and grabbed it, and then hurled it toward her attackers. She heard it shatter, and she leapt up, seizing the sniper rifle with both hands. She turned it to face Harris and his henchman and fired. A blazing incendiary bullet shot towards them, striking the marble balcony mere inches from their feet. It exploded, sending fire and rock raining everywhere. Harris and Neil were tossed back, and Kristin made a speedy exit through the window, landing at the feet of a very shell-shocked Mr. Wooshou.

"Hi!" Kristin chimed out cheerfully. "My name is Kristin Watson, and you can thank me for saving your life."

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The doorbell of Dr. john Watson's apartment rang at precisely 3:30 A.M. Dr. Watson himself rose from his comfortable place beside his wife warily, picking up a pistol from his nightstand. He edged toward the door, well aware of his four sleeping children relying on his protection.

"Who is it?" John shouted warily. There was no response. He pulled the hammer back on his gun while unlocking the large front door, racking his brain for who would come calling at 3:30 in the morning.

The doctor wrenched the door open and held out his gun at arms length, ready to fire at any second.

"Kristin!" Watson's jaw fell open and he dropped his arm, blue eyes wide. His daughter looked back at him, short brown hair tousled, face smeared with a mixture of blood and cheap makeup, and her outfit torn to pieces.

"Hi, dad…"


	3. Chapter 2 Die Forelle

Chapter 2

Winter passed more slowly in London than in any year prior. Snow fell in thick, heavy blankets across the city long into March, covering the cobbled streets and creating graceful outlines upon the statues and cravings of the more regal buildings. The poor houses and hospitals were crowded with those seeking warmth and shelter. Food supplies remained scarce and primarily for the well off. Doctors and nurses were kept on a constant vigil, the number of citizens suffering from the harmful effects of frostbite increasing exponentially with every passing week. Disease spread with rapidity, ravaging one shantytown after another. Children frolicked in the icy streets, gliding about the town on wooden sleds with steel runners, breaking out old, holey skates in order to participate in pick-up hockey games. Even the older lads joined in the fun, trying out their hands at ice carving and exchanging snowball fire after school hours. Still, the persistent, frigid chill eventually began to tickle their fingertips and noses, and they were beckoned inside by the lure of a crackling fire, warm suppers, and a very fervent mother.

The apartment of 221B Baker Street, if viewed from the walkway adjacent to the front steps, appeared to be faring feebly in its struggle against the prolonged winter. Icicles clung determinedly to the shingles that tapered downwards off the roof (that dipped slightly with the weight of numerous snowfalls). Frost covered the crème-toned bricks of the towering structure, spider webbing intricate patterns across the entire structure. The doorknob was frozen, and it seemed that no one ever came or went from the hallowed place. 221B Baker St. was passed by with shakes of the head and tut-tutting from passersby. The windows untouched by the winter chill however persistent it was, were the only indications of the near tropic climate inside.

In fact, the residents of 221B Baker St. were more than toasty. In the case of Mrs. Hudson, she could barely stand to cook a meal in the stifling heat that her tenant had procured, and spent days that were usually occupied stoking a fire or warming herself relaxed in a red velvet armchair without any job to do. She dwelled primarily in the first floor rooms, either reading or simply sleeping. She was an old woman now, and preferred rest above any activity. She needed only to clean once a week, what with her sole occupant scarcely leaving his second floor apartment, and _never_ allowing her to enter his private sanctuary. Mrs. Hudson, though concerned ever-so slightly for the tenant's health and well-being, was content to let it remain that way, content to remain in her own sanctuary of warmth for as long as her client desired.

Above the snoozing Mrs. Hudson, a gently spinning phonograph emanated music throughout a cluttered, artifact-ridden apartment. Franz Schubert's "Die Forelle" swirled around the wide assortment of items, from dated stacks of encyclopedias to elegant mahogany chairs, dust covered china sets to lengthy samurai swords, an upturned tea kettle to the burgundy curtains. The music ruffled through the dark black fur of a bearskin rug, caused the lights of the apartment to flicker. A discarded pen rocked back and forth to the nearly indiscernible beat, while a clock mounted upon the wall ticked away the tempo without gusto, attempting to catch up with the opera. Its pendulum swung back and forth, back and forth. The phonograph turned methodically, twisting the notes into the humid air, as Sherlock Holmes completed another repetition.

Toned, well muscled left arm flexing, Holmes pushed his body off the floor in a perfect bridge, and then lowered himself once more. Sweat dripped through his dark, disheveled hair and ran in small beads across his forehead, cheeks, and neck, creating a glistening effect in from the outside moonlight. His bare chest also gleamed; his abdominal muscles strained against his tight skin as he pushed his body up once more, using only his left arm. No hint of pain was evident in his eyes as he labored; the only indication he was pushing his body at all was the perspiration that dotted his godlike figure.

"In einem Bachlein helle, Da schuss in frocher Eil! Die launische Forelle, Voruber wie ein Pfiel" "_In a bright little brook there shot in merry haste a capricious trout, past it shot like an arrow."_

Holmes rose from his position on the floor and reached above his head, gasping a metal bar wedged between inside the doorframe in his arms, and pulled himself up so that his chin rested upon the bar. He eased himself downward, and then back up again, the German lyrics of Schubert's piece ringing in his ears.

"Ein fischer mit der rute whol an dem ufer stand, und sah's mit kaltem blute, wie sich das fischlein wand." "_A fisher with his rod stood at the water's side and watched with cold blood as the fish swam about."_

Sherlock Holmes released the bar from the clutch of his right hand and began lifting his weight with only his left arm.

"Doch endlich ward dem diebe die zeit zu land. Er macht das bachlein tuckisch trube…" "_But finally the thief grew weary of waiting. He stirred up the brook and made it muddy…"_

Holmes regained the bar with his right hand and let go with his left, resuming his rhythmic repetitions with only his right arm straining against gravity. He squeezed his eyes shut.

"Und eh ich es gedacht!..." "_And before I realized it!..."_

Pain shrieked through Holmes' shoulder, but he disregarded it with a sharp inhale of breath.

"So zuckte seine rute, das fischlein zappelt dran!" "_His fishing rod was squirming, the fish was twitching there!"_

Holmes gasped as fire coursed through his shoulder injured so long ago, unconscious tears seeping from the corners of his eyes. Sweat gleamed as his muscles flexed, and in order to block out the pain, he moved faster, hauling his body up and down with increasing speed.

"Und ich mit regem blute sah die betrogene an." "_And with raging blood I gazed at the betrayed fish!"_

An anguish scream broke from Holmes' mouth.

"Moriarty, you bastard! Let me down off this infernal hook! Let me go! Let me down! I am not your trout!"

Moriarty grinned in response.

"But that's the fun of this game you played, Sherlock. I caught you anyway!" Moriarty's eyes gleamed as he wrenched Holmes' right arm down, coupling the action with vicarious, maniac laughter. "Un ich mit regem blute sah die betrogene an!" "_And with raging blood I gazed at the betrayed fish!"_

"No!" Holmes screamed, and then he was pulled back into his own mind as he crashed to the hard wooden floor inside the doorframe.

Sherlock's breath seethed through his lips in raged gasps as he lay on his back, chest glistening with sweat, coal brown eyes now relaying the pain under which his body and mind suffered, enhanced in the sweltering heat. His shoulder cried out in anguish, enforcing the psychological ghosts that plagued Holmes. He lay there for only a moment longer, and then sat up, ignoring the spasms that racked his right arm. The phonograph had fallen from its nearby perch when Holmes had tumbled from the meat hook. Pull-up bar, he corrected himself. Holmes leaned forward, righted it, and then gained his feet. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his abandoned shirt and strode to the window of his sitting room, which he opened. He seized a handful of snow and brought it back inside, declining to close the window, enjoying the sweat sensation of cool winter air caressing his solid, tightly muscled back. He dumped his handful of snow into the shirt, using it as a bag, and then placed it upon his still ringing shoulder. Coolness washed over the inflamed wound, and he sighed with relief. Then he turned and walked away.

Holmes entered his bedroom and went straight to a small birdcage in the corner, where a sparrow was hopping around with anxious little chirps.

"Hello, Truite," Holmes greeted, opening the small door of the cage without concern. He reached inside and retrieved the now panicked bird, and placed him upon a chest of drawers. A mere foot away stood a small table with a substantial stack of seeds resting on top. Holmes, his dark eyes never leaving the animal, sat back into a rocking chair.

"Go on, then," he told the alarmed sparrow named Truite. "Impress me."

The bird shot him an exasperated glance, and then began hopping around upon the wood surface in an apparent hunt for food. It turned around questioningly, revealing its right wing, which drug along the ground. Holmes never blinked, watching the small sparrow. He himself had injured the bird years ago, mutilating its wing. This was an experiment, an experiment that had not been successful in a wide array of creatures. Including humans.

Truite had obviously seen the free food offered to her, but knew she could not reach it without a short burst of flight. She perched contemplatively on the ledge of the dresser, beady eyes watching the seeds lustfully. She stretched both of her wings, gave a small chirp, and leaped. Holmes leaned forward, but the sparrow only made it as far as her jump would carry her, and she fell, plummeting into Holmes' outstretched hands. She was shrieking in either fright or pain, wings pumping futilely as Holmes brought her close to his face for an examination. A scar existed along the shoulder joint of her right wing, and it flapped less fervently than its left counterpart.

"We will try again tomorrow then, shall we?" he queried, standing as he replaced Truite in her small prison. She shuddered away from him, seeking the farthermost corner in which to conceal herself. Holmes observed her for only a moment longer before exiting the room without a backwards glance as the snow resting on his shoulder began to leak frigid, icy water down his back. It was time to call upon the good doctor and his lovely daughter – who he had been dying to meet ever since she had prohibited the assassination of Jack Wooshou.


	4. Chapter 3 A Watson Family Predicament

**AN: I feel that it is important to say that I do NOT own anything mentioned in my story. **I hope that you, my kind readers, are thus far enjoying my story. The plot should start to pick up soon, but I felt that providing a well-rounded back story was vitally important to all pieces of fictitious work, so there you have it. Reviews are welcomed; they give me incentive to continue working.

Thanks, HockeyGirl871

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Chapter 3 – A Watson Family Predicament

"Come at once to Baker Street!" Dr. John Watson read aloud. "If you are incapable of coming at once, come later. ~ SH. P.S. Bring your eldest daughter along."

John stared at the crinkled parchment for a few moments, the smell of booze wafting upward toward him over the scent of blood from his patient's wound. He felt his cheeks flush in annoyance, and he returned to his patient with irritation guiding his movements.

"Thank you, Martha," he muttered. "You may dispose of that. I have no further need for it."

"Very well, Dr. Watson," answered the young nurse, and she proceeded to shred the small square of the letter, releasing each strand of yellowed parchment into the trash one by one. When she had finished, she all but danced back to John's side. "Are you in need of any assistance, doctor?"

"No thank you, Martha. I'll have this cleared up in a jiffy," John looked up and smiled kindly to the attending nurse, who flashed a set of pearly white teeth in his direction, giggling to herself. John immediately returned to his fall victim patient. It was no secret that Martha found him very attractive, and had often attempted to flirt, but he couldn't help but think of a horse when she grinned like that.

The doctor fingered his patient's neck gingerly. It didn't feel as if it were broken. That limited his search to a head wound. Blood was slowly oozing out of the patient's left ear; indicative of brain damage. That was not John's department.

"Martha, please have this man transferred to neurology," he told the young nurse, who grinned at him once more.

"Alright, doctor."

Martha returned with several other nurses, and they lifted the patient's stretcher, carrying him from the room to the correct vicinity of the hospital.

"He slipped on the ice and plummeted at least twenty feet. Poor fellow," John told Martha. He shook his head. "Must have been drinking."

Martha tsk tsked and walked toward John to undo his hospital scrubs while he removed his gloves, surgical mask, and hair net.

"Drinking isn't always bad!" Martha stated idly and John slipped out of his bloodstained robe. "Sometimes it helps warm you up on cold days. Hey!-" Martha cried, ignoring Dr. Watson's open mouth. "Why don't we slip down to the bar and grab some whiskey. Just us two. Together." As she spoken, Martha had stepped progressively closer to the good doctor, and was now situated less than a foot away, smiling that horrid smile that she believed so attractive. John himself leaning far away, not excited to be this close to the nurse by any definition of the word. He cleared his throat uncomfortably.

"I must be getting home," he said, taking the desperate Martha's wrists in his hands and pushing her away. "Our youngest has become ill. You must understand. Besides, I have that letter I must see to."

Martha's face fell slightly.

"Very well," she muttered. "Send my best to the missus and your fine children."

"I shall, goodnight Martha."

"Goodnight, doctor!"

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I received a letter today from our favorite consulting detective."

"But John, there is only one – oh," Mary's face turned anxious as she realized who her husband spoke of. She stood at the sink, cleaning dirty dishes in sudsy lukewarm water. She pursed her lips, actions becoming more deliberate. Mary gazed out the window, methodically scrubbing dirt and grime from pots, pans, utensils, plates, and bowls. John sat behind her, head resting in his hands as he leaned against the kitchen table. His cane lay nearby, along with his favored top hat and scarf. "What did he want?"

"He requested that I make his acquaintance as soon as convenient," John stated, running his hands over his eyes tiredly. "But, my love that is not why I broach the subject with you. The reason I trouble you with such matters is that he also demanded to meet Kristin."

The glass Mary was holding fell from her hand back into the frothy sink with a splash.

"Oh, John, we have already discussed this!" Mary cried, facing her husband. "We agreed that it was in the best interest of Kristin to not become acquainted with him!"

"I know," Dr. Watson sighed, looking at his beautiful mistress. "I wanted to inform you of Holmes' most recent request, since it pertained to Kristin. Your daughter."

Mary shook her head vehemently.

"I say no. We both agreed that Kristin meeting Sherlock Holmes would be disastrous to her upbringing. We cannot let her come into association with Holmes. I fear that it would be the death of every value I have attempted to instill in her over all these years."

"Very well, Mary," John said. "I won't take her with me." Mary turned back to the dishes.

The good doctor stood and embraced his wife from behind, planting a sloppy, wet kiss on her cheek.

"John, stop it!" she shrieked, attempting to wriggle away. John simply smiled, responding to her pleas by strengthening his hug. Playfully, he bit her ear, causing her to laugh, and Mary turned in his arms to face him, blue eyes glittering. "Oh, John!" she chided, wrapping her own arms around him and resting her head upon his chest. Dr. Watson chuckled lightly.

"I will return in time for dinner, love," he told Mary gently, pressing a kiss onto her forehead. The lovers released each other and Mary gathered her husband's effects, adoringly placing his hat upon his head and organizing his scarf about his throat. She allotted him one final kiss before she turned back to her dishes, and he to the hallway that would lead him outdoors.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"Kristin." Watson stopped in midstride and frowned, eying his eldest daughter with repugnance. He was still not on speaking terms with her, and hadn't been since she had returned from one of her midnight excursions with the news she had been the one to ignite the Hotel Royal. It wasn't helping matters that she was now poised defiantly in front of the door, leather satchel faithfully hanging on her side. John knew his daughter well enough to realize that she intended to go out.

"Father," she responded with equal chill in her tone. She was dressed acceptably for once, in a dark blue jumper with white underlay. Though her brown hair was unconventionally short, she looked beautiful. She could almost pass for a proper lady. "I demand that you take me with you."

Watson raised his eyebrows incredulously.

"You_ demand, _do you?" he questioned, struggling to keep his voice amiable. Kristin nodded.

"Yes. I demand."

John shook his head dubiously.

"Kristin, this is a visit I would prefer to make unaccompanied. And by 'prefer'- " John wasn't too slow to catch Kristin's mouth opening in an attempt to thwart him, " – I meant, 'this is a visit I am going to make by myself.'"

Kristin's forehead wrinkled in frustration, and John was struck by how much she resembled himself. She closed her mouth quite suddenly, and her head fell. She let out a long, defeated sigh.

"Very well, father. You and mother know best, I assume." Kristin moved away from the wooden front door morosely, with almost sluggish disposition. She passed John without confrontation, moving to stand behind her father. John strode to the door and turned the knob. As the cold winter air gushed inside, Dr. Watson turned back to look at his daughter. It was a struggle, he had to admit, not to cave to Kristin's angelically sculptured face, smooth, without imperfection. Those large, wide-open blue eyes that made John feel as if he was staring in a mirror. Her sweet, low, soothing voice. But, something always reminded him that she was not what she seemed. Her eyes gave her away, what with their fiery glint behind the pool-like blue. John observed her for only a moment more before ducking outside into the frigid cold. Only thirty seconds later, he reappeared through the doorway, anxious blue eyes dashing around the hallway. He found what he was looking for. Kristin was standing exactly where he had left her, and in her hands were the good doctor's cane, his hat, and scarf. She smiled with breathtaking sweetness.

"Missing something, father?" Kristin queried, tipping her head slightly, faux curiosity glittering across her face. Dr. Watson groaned, reentering his home.

"Crafty. But you'll have to do much better than that to impress my friend."

Kristin's confident smile wavered only slightly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said," Watson stated, striding to his daughter, "that you'll have to execute much greater tasks with much greater precision to impress my friend, than simply stealing your agitated father's hat and scarf." The wisps of a smile floated about Watson's lips. Kristin's brow furrowed once more.

"I shall have to do something about that then, shan't I?"

"I never saw you leave," Watson stated blankly, scarcely disguising the hint in his voice.

"And I left of my own accord after you ardently forbade it."

"Right." Watson sighed as his daughter broke into a grin. He hated lying to Mary, but hated even more to see his daughter locked away in her room, brooding feelings of angst towards the lot of them.

"Miss Watson." John tipped his hat.

"Doctor." Kristin winked.

The two parted on that note, Kristin's usual emotionless demeanor shattered with child-like electricity, John praying animatedly that his actions wouldn't lead to destruction.


	5. Chapter 4 Mr Tull's Beard

Chapter 4 – Mr. Tull's Beard

"I must warn you in advance, Sherlock Holmes is not your average intelligent man. His actions range from pure genius to utter inanity. I could not provide you with a better specimen of a lunatic. However, I have always and will always count him amongst my closest and best companions."

"I am aware, I've read your memoirs," Kristin interjected gruffly, ignoring her father's startled choke of embarrassment at the idea his child had read his private journals. Watson glanced down at his daughter with disdain. When he had advised that she come in disguise, Watson had not anticipated the extreme extent to which she would heed his warning. She sported a long, tangled beard that fell to her knees and completely concealed very full feminine curves and pink lips. Accompanying her beard was a matching wig of filthy brown hair inside which her own hair was stuffed. Thick glasses obscured her eyes from the outside world, and she walked with a limp, leaning upon one of John's spare canes as part of the façade. She was draped entirely in heavy coats and garments, and the ensemble was completed by a large hump upon her left shoulder. The only things that could possibly have given her away were her vibrant blue eyes. "They have told me much about your friend. That is why I have been so anxious to meet him. You see, those with my level intellect are hard to come by."

Dr. Watson pursed his lips.

"You two certainly ought to hit it off smashingly."

"If you're referring to my remark about the intellects of our household reminding you of Mr. Holmes' habit of belittling your deductive reasoning ability, then I am happy to inform you that this thought has occurred to me before. However, to avoid punishment I've kept such comments to myself."

Dr. Watson shook his head.

"As I said, you two ought to hit it off smashingly." The father and daughter proceeded quietly for a few moments, the silence filled with the sounds of London. While they walked, Dr. Watson continuously shot glances in Kristin's direction. Finally, he could stand it no longer. "Will 'Mr. Tull' be with accompanying me all night?"

A smile – nearly indiscernible through Kristin's beard – flickered across her face.

"Perhaps." It was apparent from her tone that no more words would be spoken about the matter. Dr. Watson shook his head, and once again proceeded in silence, following a path he could have walked with his eyes closed with his daughter disguised as a homeless beggar in tow.

"Ahh, look!" Kristin suddenly cried out emphatically, seizing her father's arm. "There's the mayor of Loughton. The countess of Romania and he recently were involved in a scandal most sinister!"

Dr. Watson followed his daughter's gaze to a grizzled looking man in a cigarette burned suit with a gray beard. He looked at Kristin in disbelief.

"How do you even know who the countess of Romania is?" he asked, attempting to keep the confusion from leaking into his voice. Kristin shot him a look of contempt. '_How do you NOT know who the countess of Romania is?' _john sighed. "I'll take your word for it, then."

Kristin resumed her post of being the pair's eyes, ears, nose, and other sensory organs. She rambled to Dr. Watson with zealous pleasure, pointing out the infinitesimally small details of the world as if their existence hinged upon something not being missed. The doctor followed her findings with great interest; _strange_, he thought, _whenever Holmes would attempt to occupy my thoughts, I would tune him out. But now… it's my daughter divulging these miniscule details, and I am hooked on her every word…_

"Well here we are!"

John snapped out of his state of admiration at the sound of Kristin's natural voice, finally female instead of her artificial male pretense. He looked around apprehensively, and indeed they were standing before the front steps of 221B Baker Street. It was in a frightful state, what with the roof sagging so far inward it appeared ready to give way, icicles nearly four feet long attempting to rip the gutter from its moorings. Ice covered the red brick steps, making walking up precarious to say the least. Every window was black. John and Kristin both jumped, caught off guard as a violent shatter from the upstairs, muffled by the building's walls, filtered into their ears.

"Holmes…" Watson said to himself. "What has become of this place?"

Kristin, never missing a thing, chimed in with her two cents.

"It's obviously been neglected. Either that, or the inhabitants don't care enough to patch it up. The landlord ought to be at the forefront of the blame; it is his responsibility to care for the well-being of his abode, no matter how humble. If I were to wager a guess – " Kristin broke off in mid sentence, admonished by a sharp glare from her father. Seeing the apartment in such ragged shape had put him in a set mood of despair, and his daughter's commentary was not helping him.

"Mrs. Hudson is a land_lady_," he emphasized, taking initiative and striding up the front steps with caution. "And if I know her, the state of this place has nothing to do with her being inattentive."

Kristin simply shrugged, choosing to keep her mouth shut for the time being. She felt that her discourteous albeit true statements had crossed some boundary that had further exasperated her father. She watched as her father rang the doorbell, and then concluded her examination of 221B Baker St.

"Dad?"

"What, Kristin."

"Be prepared to face a blast of hot air."

Dr. Watson turned to her with a disbelieving expression.

"Kristin, why on earth should I expect this apartment to be warm, given the obvious state of disarray?"

"Because," Kristin began, "look at the windows. What do they tell you?" Without waiting for a response, she eagerly pressed on. "They are completely fogged over, indicating the house – "

At that moment, a jolly-faced Mrs. Hudson swung the front door open, and Dr. Watson's eyes widened as the heat from inside gushed over his face. He looked at Kristin in confusion, who gave him a small nod, before turning to his old housekeeper.

"John!" she shrieked gleefully, throwing plump arms around the doctor's shoulders in a vigorous embrace. "Oh, John! It has been far too long! What brings you back to your home? I beseech thee, come inside quickly! It's frightfully toasty inside." All at once, she caught a glimpse of Kristin over Dr. Watson's shoulder. "And… Who is this?"

Dr. Watson pulled out of Mrs. Hudson's hug and glanced condescendingly at Kristin.

"You are more than welcome to remove your beard now, Miss Watson," he said stiffly. "I doubt very highly that your mother will have followed us this far."

"Excellent," Kristin replied, striding up the stairs as if it were natural to walk upon thick sheets of ice, tugging off her wig in the process. "These garments were beginning to bother me."

Mrs. Hudson gasped.

"Well, if it isn't… My goodness, child! My, how you've grown! Whatever could have possessed you to wear such an atrocious get-up? Why, the only other soul that I have seen dress so outlandishly is Mr. Holmes himself!"

John winced as Mrs. Hudson compared his daughter to the out of the ordinary detective; this was exactly what Mary and he had not wanted to happen. Kristin's attention was instantly directed to Mrs. Hudson, blue eyes boring holes through the landlady's head. Mrs. Hudson backed away into John, uncertainty evident across her aged face as Kristin's stare scrutinized every bit of her.

"Is that so?" Kristin questioned, removing her beard as she spoke, along with her glasses. Mrs. Hudson nodded, too unnerved to speak. It was the same inspecting glare, the same insightful expression, devoid of any emotion but mild curiosity that Holmes often observed her with. Kristin kept her gaze trained on Mrs. Hudson for what felt like hours, but in actuality was merely several seconds. "Your tomato soup is burning."

"Oh! Yes, of course, excuse me, doctor!" Mrs. Hudson shuffled past Kristin nervously, and as soon as she vanished from sight, Dr. Watson seized his daughter's arm in a vice like grip. She gasped quietly and made a meek effort to twist away from him.

"Listen to me!" he seethed through gritted teeth. "Mrs. Hudson is one of my dear friends! I will not have you causing her any discomfort! After all, she was kind enough to put up with Holmes and I all of those years ago, I would be most glad if you would show some courtesy to this splendid woman. After all, she was your midwife, and probably the only reason you came into this world successfully. Are we clear, Miss Watson?"

"Clear, dad!" Kristin answered, and Dr. Watson released her. He eyed her skeptically.

"Take off the remainder of your camouflage as well. There is no need for it here."

Kristin did as she was told, casting her garments into the corner. She then went about examining the ground floor, mind leaving her father and Mrs. Hudson behind.

Dr. Watson let his daughter go about her business, and he entered the kitchen to find Mrs. Hudson bending over a kettle of steamy red broth.

"How are things?" he asked cordially, hanging his hat upon the nearby hall tree. Mrs. Hudson waited for several minutes before responding.

"Everything is… grand," she said after a long while. "We have remained warm here throughout these ghastly winter months, I can tell you that!"

"Yes, I meant to question you about that. How did Holmes manage it?"

Mrs. Hudson waved her hand aloofly, taking a sip from a clay mug filled with brandy-infused hot tea.

"It's not a care of mine! But he turned the whole place into a wreck, didn't he?" Mrs. Hudson's green eyes suddenly focused on John's face. She sighed, heavy exhaustion suddenly trickling out in her voice. Dr. Watson leaned forward as she slipped her hands in his, tears gathering in her eyes. "He did," she stated softly. "And he's not fairin' so well 'imself, I'd reckon."

Watson had been afraid of this. After the birth of his third child, Jonathan, who had been born with a malformed heart and Asperger's Syndrome, Watson's visits to Holmes had dwindled and inevitably died out. It wasn't that he hadn't cared for his friend; it was a time problem. It seemed that between the upbringing of his sons, his medical practice, and his unruly daughter he could scarcely catch a break. It had been months – no, more like years since he had last paid a visit to 221B Baker St., he realized with a sinking heart. And he could obviously see how they had faired.

"Mrs. Hudson," Watson said slowly. "Please tell me what you know. Perhaps I might be able to talk some sense into him."

As soon as her father and Mrs. Hudson were out of ear shot, engaged in a conversation about Sherlock Holmes, their mutual acquaintance, Kristin returned the small table clock she had been examining to its proper place upon a hall table and edged toward the stairs. When she was absolutely certain that her father's back was turned, she hastened up stairway in near silence; she had a meeting to keep with a certain consulting detective.


	6. Chapter 5 Chess

**Disclaimer :** Even though I wish I did, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or anything affiliated with him, etc etc...

**AN: **I hope you enjoy this chapter, I certainly had fun writing it! Please review to let me know what you think!

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Chapter 5 – Chess

Kristin strode into the sitting room of 221B Baker St., keeping her eyes and ears alert. Just as she had expected, to the untrained eye the apartment appeared to be in shambles. There were – just as her father had told her – papers strewn catawampus in every imaginable place, along floorboards, resting precariously upon the very corners of a mahogany desk. There were – as she had anticipated – artifacts from random sites around the globe: a voodoo doll, a suffering bonsai tree, a shrunken head. A black bear's hide grinned up at her from its perpetual bed beside the fireplace, yellowed fangs covered with a filmy layer of ash. A chandelier hung from the ceiling, also coated in a thick layer of linty dust. These attributes all registered in Kristin's mind, but she was most fascinated by the walls.

They were entirely plastered by newspaper clippings, photographs, and advertisements. Headlines told of bombings in Germany, major medical advancements; stories of progress in the world of chemistry, London's "Most Wanted" section. Pictures littered the spaces between newspaper clippings; malformed animals, images of citizens crying out in pain as they endured unimaginable amounts of torture, an overwhelming amount of profile prints of whom Kristin recognized to be the notorious professor, James Moriarty. Lines of red string zigzagged from one picture to the next, an indistinguishable maze of lines, options, and confusion. A smile graced the edges of Kristin's lips. A puzzle game. She was good at games. A purple thumbtack with only one string attached provided her with her starting location. She put a finger on it and let the cord slide along it as she followed her first lead diagonally to the opposing corner.

The string led her to an article titled "Giovanni Takes London by Storm," and she promptly turned, tracing the ribbon she believed to be next in line to the lonesome phonograph, motionless in the absence of a record. Without stopping, Kristin turned to her left following one of seven outwardly directed strings to the adjacent wall to a nearly imperceptible note, which read "Die Forelle." The next strand she chose took her to a stuffed trout hanging above the fireplace; after which, she made her way to one of the many photographs of James Moriarty. Each clipping offered so many alternative choices, Kristin thought gleefully. She possessed an uncanny aptitude for such things, and delighted in each decision, each trial that would lead her closer to the answer.

"A violin," Kristin muttered to herself after several more leads had been followed, fingers finally finding rest upon a battered image of an equally battered Stradivarius. "That can only mean…"

Kristin whirled around, nearly breaking into a run. She chased the red twine across the room until her hand collided with something soft and warm. "Sherlock Holmes," she said slowly. "A pleasure to finally meet you, to be sure." And with that, she yanked the detective out of the human-shaped hole in the plaster.

Holmes stumbled into the open, completely clothed in his newest version of human camouflage. It matched his wildly decorative walls, with newsprint headlines covering his entire body. As he departed his hiding place, the red string attached to his chest pulled out of its staple and, its elasticity released, shot across the small room like a rubber band.

"Data, data, data, Miss Watson! One simply cannot make bricks without clay." Holmes strode across the room in pursuit of the red string that now hung limply from the violin picture. "Would you ask a painter to illustrate da Vinci without paints? Of course not." With careful hands, the detective, still clad in his ridiculous newspaper style get-up, began to knot the extra thread. "Would you ask a seamstress to embroider garments without string? Preposterous. Would you request a detective to solve a case without letting him first examine the evidence? You would not." Holmes finished with the string and pulled off his hood, revealing disheveled brown hair that was nearly black in color, pieces flying every which way, static electricity pulling them this way and that. Below his hair were two dark eyebrows, under which rested two piercing chocolate eyes. The very beginnings of a beard covered his hollow cheeks, the brown stubble decorating his upper lip as well as his chin. Tiny scars left infinitely small marks upon the otherwise flawless pale skin. "The world of a consulting detective hinges upon data, Miss Watson. Data and observation." As the word "observation" left Holmes' mouth, he tore off the remainder of his urban camouflage and was left standing stark naked before Kristin, who hardly flinched before the chiseled body. Without further ado, Holmes strode out of the room, and Kristin followed, seemingly unphased by the bizarre display from Holmes.

She waited outside his bedroom while he put clothes on, meanwhile fidgeting with a marble chess set beside the window.

"Had you guessed improperly as to the location of the next wire in my sequence," came Holmes' voice, "you would have received a small jolt from one of the metal tacks holding the thread to the wall. Fortunately for you, your problem solving was impeccable, however elementary."

Suddenly Holmes was standing beside Kristin at the window, fully clothed in a blue suit with a white dress shirt underneath, a red tie even accenting the ensemble. Kristin didn't miss him tucking a revolver into his belt. Extra bullets jingled in his pocket along with various coins. She doubted he had had any reason to wear this outfit in a long while, as given that cobwebs clung feebly to the shoulders of the suit and the smell of musty, unwashed clothes accompanied Holmes out of his bedroom. The two stared outside into the street for several quiet moments.

"Those who see all but do not observe are the most blind of all. That is why the world is so full of fools meandering through their daily lives with little purpose and scant idea of their environment. Men progress stupidly through life without the realization that what they are constantly seeking can be found around them. Observation, Miss Watson, will provide you with data. Data will provide you with answers."

Kristin turned, looking straight up into Holmes' eyes. Inquisitive brown met questioning blue, and for several moments the two stood rigidly still, sifting through the other's face, the other's body posture. Every miniscule detail was observed in a matter of several seconds; then, Holmes broke the chilly silence by taking Kristin's hand in his own and kissing it.

"A pleasure to meet you as well, Miss Watson. Might I be so bold as to declare that you look exactly like a female representation of your father? However, I'm pleased to detect that your mind functions in a much different way. Had Watson – your father, that is – stumbled upon my little enigma, I'm afraid he would have finished with a bloody painful shock."

"He also would inquire as to why you're drinking gasoline from a hollow human skull." Both of them cast their eyes into Holmes' bedroom where there was indeed a hollowed out human skull staring back at them from the small table near Truite's bird cage. "He would inquire about the state of his old apartment, how long exactly you'd encased yourself in plaster in order to hide in the wall, and inevitably what had happened to you," Kristin concluded, staring into Holmes' eyes. He held her gaze, mild amusement glittering behind the russet irises.

"Do you play chess, Miss Watson?" he asked, wrapping thin, skeletal fingers around the back of one of the chairs flanking the white pieces. Kristin quickly took in the board. Interestingly, it was the only relic in the apartment that did not appear neglected or misused. Tiny imperfections marred the marbled board, as if someone with intense fury had played multiple times before.

"I do," she answered, sliding her own seat out and sitting down before the black pieces. "Shall we play?"

An aura of seriousness suddenly overwhelmed the small residence, and Holmes regarded her with extreme solemnity, sliding his own chair back to sit across from her.

"White moves first," Kristin said, regarding Holmes with equal somberness. Holmes nodded, sliding a single pawn forward.

Kristin mirrored him, and the detective countered by moving a bishop onto the playing field. Kristin's mind left the reality of apartment 221B. She could see everything clearly. Two sides, light and dark, were interlocked in a medieval battle for supremacy. She, the all-seeing god of their lineup, felt the ground tremble as the foot soldiers thundered toward each other, lances outstretched and banners flying. From her place beside the stoic black king, she watched the space between the armies closing, knights cantering their gallant steeds behind the front lines. A black warhorse screamed, collapsing, as a bishop, clad in pearly white robes struck him and the rider the steed had tried to protect to the ground, bellowing out hymns that cursed the black devil to the seventh circle of hell. Kristin looked across the playing field to lock eyes with Holmes, who wore a coy smile on an otherwise impassive face.

She, the black queen rushed to the E5 square, and the bishop, who was still baying curses over the fallen stallion, released a blood curling squeal as the black queen, raven-black hair flying, struck him down with her scepter. Kristin looked back at Holmes, who simply narrowed his eyes. Their game went on.

"Check," Holmes cried, removing Kristin's final knight from the board. She looked up, locking eyes with her adversary. Holmes regarded her coolly.

"Bishop to D2," she responded, moving in between Holmes' piece and her own. "Check to you as well."

Holmes' eyes widened. How had he not anticipated this move? He eyed Kristin's bishop quietly, sorting through every possible outcome, weighing his options, searching futilely for a way to prolong the game.

"A checkmate accomplished by the employment of a queen and a bishop," Kristin said slowly. "Using the borders created by the two pieces, the king is eventually backed into a corner where he has no chance of escape. Inevitably, mate."

Holmes' white king fell, bouncing off the marble board with startling finality. His brown eyes now seemed coal black as he stared at his downed piece. Kristin stared at him, nervous energy crackling in the air. Pieces lay strewn across the playing area, evidence of the hard battle that had been fought minutes ago. Both participants were leaning forward, breathing heavily, Holmes in bleak indignation and Kristin in nervous caution. The tension in the room was felt to build, growing heavier and heavier with each passing breath.

"The Fool's Mate," Kristin stated quietly.

The tension snapped. Holmes gained his feet in one quick, stiff movement that Kristin mirrored, both of their chairs toppling backward. Holmes' expression chilled Kristin to the bone. But as soon as it appeared in vanished, and the detective extended his hand in recognition of a game well played.

"A fair game," he stated without a single drop of ice tainting his voice. "A game of strategy. And now, a game of strength."


	7. Chapter 6 Confrontations

**AN: T**hank you to everyone who has followed/favorited/reviewed my story thus far. I greatly appreciate it! As always, further reviews would be most appreciated! Tell me what you think! This was by far the most fun chapter to write. Also, I apologize for any grammatical errors you find. If you notice one, PLEASE PM me about it.

As always, HockeyGirl871

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Chapter 6 – Confrontations of a Different Sort

"_Step one, create distraction." With a quick flick of his wrist, Holmes overturned the chess table sending pieces flying._

"_Step two, draw target closer." He yanked his adversary toward his body, grip on her outstretched hand tightening._

"_Step three, deflect wild attempt to punch." Holmes threw his left arm into Kristin's wrist, knocking her attempt at defense away._

"_Step four, immobilize primary defense." Holmes released her right hand, spinning Kristin so that her back was pressed against his chest, hands clasping her wrists._

"_Step five, take out support." Holmes kicked the back of Kristin's legs causing her to fall forward, suspended only by his grip on her arms. _

"_Step six," Holmes thought. "…Lecture."_

As soon as their hands touched, Holmes struck the marble chess set with his left hand, sending the pieces clattering across the room. Kristin's head turned, watching them fall in slow motion, felt Holmes' grip upon her hand tighten.

"**Step one, startle."**

Unbeknownst to Holmes, Kristin held in her hand several pieces from the game. These she tossed into his face.

"**Step two, use forward momentum to advantage."**

Holmes blinked rapidly as the pieces collided with his face as he pulled her in. Kristin's incredibly solid body collided with his chest, sending him stumbling backwards a few steps, their hands still locked together.

"_Reevaluate strategy. Utilize headlock."_

As Kristin pushed Holmes, his left arm flew up and wrapped around her throat. He released her right hand and used his left arm's grip around her neck to pull her into his side.

"**Step three, spin."**

The smell of spilled brandy and tobacco washed over her as Holmes cradled her head under his arm as she backpedaled, pulling Holmes in a circle as well. She collided with the wall, unable to move any further, head still locked in Holmes' vice like grasp.

"_Target is trapped_, _attack face."_

Holmes grit his teeth as he swung his right arm around his body and made contact with Kristin's… hand, which in turn collided into her forehead. She grunted as she slapped his fist away.

"**Step 4…"**

Holmes gasped as Kristin's knee collided with the region between his legs. He staggered forward, stomach seizing in pain. So she was going to play dirty… Holmes whirled around as Kristin leapt toward him, the back of his hand colliding with her cheek, sending her tumbling backward, overturning a hall tree in her fall to the ground. Holmes jumped after her, hands reaching for the collar of her white dress shirt. At the last moment, Kristin kicked her heels into his stomach, flipping him over her head and sending him careening into a somersault. An armchair tumbled over in his wake. Kristin, head ringing from the blow to her face, staggered to her feet, tripping to the window to catch her breath. She heard Holmes gain his feet behind her, heard his footsteps coming closer and closer…

"Enough!"

The single word seemed to bounce off both of the sweat-covered rivals as they glared at each other from their respective ends of the hallway. Brown eyes stared straight into blue as they observed each other with keyed up anxiety apparent across every feature, from Kristin's furrowed brow to Holmes' rigidly set shoulders, blood oozing from a small abrasion above Holmes' left eye. Both held a revolver in their left hands, pointed directly at the other's chest. However, their eyes never left the other's irises. Voltage seemed to race between them, creating an unbreakable link between their minds. Kristin felt heat seeping into her fingers, and could tell that Holmes was experiencing a similar feeling, judging by the fact his pupils were slowly dilating.

"I said enough!"

Rigidly, Holmes and Kristin lowered their weapons, understanding slowly creeping into the entwined gaze. A smile began to creep across Holmes' face.

"Watson," he said leisurely, answering the man standing incredulously in the doorframe. "So good to see you!"

"What in the name of God are you doing with my revolver, Kristin Silas Watson? And you – " Dr. Watson rounded on Holmes, pure fire burning in his expression. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Well, what I thought I was doing was entirely different from what I am doing," Holmes stated indifferently, facing his friend. Kristin felt as if she had been released from some conjured prison, startled to find her muscles completely tensed and perspiration soaking her face. "I honestly was thinking something utterly – Watson!"

Dr. Watson had swooped down upon Holmes in mid sentence, seizing his collar forcefully inside a clenched fist.

"I don't care what you _thought _you were doing, Holmes! That's my _daughter!_ Why were the pair of you holding each other at gun point? Why were Mrs. Hudson and I interrupted by you two tearing down my old apartment? Why did I come upstairs to find you two acting like wild dogs?" Dr. Watson, still holding Holmes' collar firmly, turned his head to glare at Kristin. "And you are perfectly free to answer as well!"

Holmes and Kristin locked eyes, and she gave him a barely visible nod. Holmes looked up at his old roommate.

"If you must know, I was putting your daughter through a series of trials to discern whether she will make an acceptable replacement for you."

Watson's expression of offense morphed into one of unbelieving incredulity.

"What?" he cried, for lack of anything else to say.

"You see I've been long searching for an adequate partner to fill your shoes. Twenty years to be precise. Who wants to die alone, after all?" Holmes paused to see if his query had had any impact on Watson, but his current anger masked any recognition of their old friendship. Holmes continued. "Miss Watson and I have been in correspondence for several months now, and I asked her to come here to Baker Street so that we might meet in person. But, like the good lass that she is, she demanded that you, her doting father, approve and escort her to my residence."

"I'm glad that you were at all interested in seeing me personally," Watson complained sarcastically. "How did you even guess that Kristin would be an 'adequate partner,' as you say?" Watson demanded skeptically, disliking the situation further the more Holmes spoke.

"Guess! Hardly. I never guess," Holmes shook his head as if offended. "I have been watching your daughter for the past two years."

"Because that's entirely normal," Watson seethed through gritted teeth, fist tightening around Holmes' collar. "You know I could have you arrested for that."

"Her mind is exemplary, quite like my own in fact. You may thank her for numerous deeds of valor and amateur crime fighting throughout London. These tedious tasks bore me, for my part. However, they are too advanced for Scotland Yard to deal with, so someone must. The first time I recognized Miss Watson in action was when we were both tracking the same 'bad guy.' 'Curious,' thought I, 'Who is this new officer of the law?' So I sat back to observe. I was startled yet pleasantly surprised to recognize your daughter. At first, I admit I was filled with skepticism, but as I continued following her movements it became apparent that she possessed no ordinary mind. That point was only stressed when I received a letter questioning why I had been pursuing her. This I found fascinating, as we had never spoken nor met, and I had always been in disguise when monitoring her actions."

"And neither of you had the decency to tell me any of this at the time," Watson muttered bitterly, shaking his head.

"Would you have approved, father, if we had?" Kristin demanded, taking a few steps forward.

"Certainly not, and I – "

"Then what good would it have done? It is far better to beg forgiveness than to defy an affirmed 'no,'" Kristin stated. She moved so that she was now standing very near to her father. She looked up at him, and Watson could almost believe – if just for a moment – that she was the same little girl who had looked up at him begging to hear a Celtic fable so long ago. Kristin placed her hand upon Watson's fist, which held Holmes' shirt collar, and he gently released his friend, who sank to the floor. Kristin maintained a gentle grip around her father's fingers, blue eyes soft and sympathetic.

"Father," she said quietly. "It's time that I begin to live my own life. You know that. You also know that you can't stop me from parting if I so desired. I would prefer not leave home, and you would prefer that too, but if it became mandatory I would do so with a heavy heart. Please, dad. Accept me for what I am."

For a moment, it seemed as if Kristin's sentimental words might break through Watson's furious outer shell. But he only ripped his hand out of his daughter's and turned away to face Holmes, who had not yet raised himself from the ground.

"We're done here," Watson said coldly. "I have no further business with a false friend who stalks my daughter. Kristin, come with me. We're leaving."

He seized Kristin's wrist and tugged her out the door, ignoring Holmes' protest. Watson was quick enough to deny Holmes the privilege of speaking to his daughter, but not fast enough to evade the note that, unbeknownst to Watson, was stuffed into her pocket. Watson grunted a quick farewell to Mrs. Hudson as he passed, who was standing, a hand covering her mouth, as if paralyzed in the doorway. Kristin had meant to follow submissively as part of the plan, but it was almost as if an irrevocable force pulled her head around and she locked eyes with Holmes one final time, electricity crackling through their conjoined gaze. Color rose in her cheeks as she stared into his eyes, his deep brown irises that concealed so much. Curiosity flashed across Holmes' face as he looked at Kristin.

"Come on!" Watson jerked Kristin away, and before their moment was over, Kristin found herself shivering in the cold London winter air. They were halfway home before she realized she had forgotten her trench coat in the foyer of 221B Baker St. Annoyance pricked her already clustered mind; Kristin never had forgotten anything before.


	8. Chapter 7 Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

**AN:** If you've followed my story this far, thank you for your patience. Anywho, please review, I hope you enjoy! Thank you!

As always, HockeyGirl871

* * *

Chapter 7 – Horseshoes & Handgrenades

"Though our minds function via essentially the same methods, I make the observation that no one of us would do things exactly alike."

"A fair claim," Holmes responded. "But not an entirely unfortunate truth."

Above the Watson residence of Cavendish Place, Kristin Watson and Sherlock Holmes were holding a conference. Unlike most nights of late, the skies over London were clear, devoid of ominous storm clouds threatening to dump cottony mounds of snow upon the panicky civilians. Though the chill of winter remained constant and unrelenting, the brief hiatus from the blizzards was cause enough to be a little merrier. It gave people hope that the dreadful winter might finally be moving on.

It was two weeks after the episode at Baker St., and now Holmes and Kristin were seated on the roof of Cavendish Place, warming their hands in the dark gray smoke wafting skyward from the red brick chimney. Holmes had clothed himself in what appeared to be a large black bathrobe made out of sheepskin. This he was wearing over the same suit in which he had fought Kristin. He held in his hand a pipe that steamed lightly, little rings wafting upward into the black void of night. Kristin, clad in a borrowed leather coat, watched them drift wearily away, in no really hurry to go anywhere. Holmes followed her gaze as she watched the smoke rings drift away.

"You don't intend to take me on as your assistant, Holmes," she said suddenly. Holmes tore himself away from the gently floating circles to look at Kristin. Her eyes were still fixated upon the stars. Holmes drew on his pipe but didn't respond. "Your goal is to use my father's obligation to protect me to lure him out on your adventures again. Because, if I go with you, he will feel mandated to be there to protect me. Therefore, you'll gain your partner back."

"My admiration of your perceptiveness is outweighed by my vast annoyance that you possess the ability to see through me," Holmes remarked. Kristin smirked without humor. Holmes sighed. "Of course, you are right, Miss Watson. That was my goal, yes."

Kristin's attention snapped to Holmes' face. He flinched under her icy gaze.

"Taking on a female partner seemed most improper, a far greater responsibility than I was willing to assume. What good would a brilliant mind be in a tough spot if it couldn't defend itself?" Holmes shook his head. He turned away from Kristin's glare and strode across the roof of Cavendish place, pipe clenched in the corner of his mouth, hands in his pockets.

"I am indifferent to your approval, Holmes," Kristin stated mildly, watching the detective walk. "I have certainly faired sufficiently on my own for long enough. Besides, I am more than accustomed to dissatisfaction from my peers regarding my occupation." Kristin's mind flashed to her mother's appalled reactions whenever one of her adventures were mentioned. An unpleasant collage of images appears in her head; Holmes' face replaced her mother's disapproving expression while the body, dress and hair remained the same. Kristin smirked at the image, and Holmes turned quickly, eyebrows slanting into a probing frown as he scrutinized Kristin. He said not a word, but his dark gaze produced an uncomfortable feeling in Kristin's stomach. She resisted the urge to squirm uneasily, the silly image of her mother combined with Holmes vanishing in a flash as the detective's stare pried into her mind. Holmes removed the pipe from his mouth and exhaled, the same analytical gaze stuck on his face.

"Dissatisfaction, hardly," he said. "Perhaps you did not recognize the past tense forms of my statements?" Holmes did not miss the flicker of hope flash across Kristin's face. He regarded her evenly for only a moment more then turned, walking to the rope ladder he had previously used to climb up. "If you wish to assist me with my investigations, meet me at the Presbyterian Church on the corner of Clapham and Trinity, S.W. London three days from now." He threw her a packet of parchment paper with hastily scrawled notes criss-crossing the surface. "We'll experiment with this new association then, shall we?"

Holmes waited, but Kristin didn't respond. Finally, she looked up, brow furrowed.

"Mr. Holmes, why would we meet at the church? My sources have led me to believe a far more logical meeting place could be established. Their caper is to take place at the church; would it not be more efficient to prevent them from making it that far?"

Holmes narrowed his eyes.

"We shall see," he muttered. "I shall wait for you at the church as a failsafe." Kristin regarded him coolly. He returned the spiteful stare.

"Goodnight, Mr. Holmes," Kristin said pleasantly.

"Farewell, Miss Watson," Holmes responded, and began to climb down the building. When he reached the alleyway below, he waited until Kristin had completely taken the ladder in until he began to walk away, deep in thought. What could she possibly know that he didn't? He'd been following this case with extreme interest for some time now. He shook his head, knowing that the failsafe at the church was going to be entirely necessary.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

"I thought you were going to wait at the church!" Kristin Watson screamed as gunfire ripped through the air, wooden splinters shooting wildly through the vicinity.

"I was!" Sherlock Holmes shouted back. "But I procured information that made me change my mind!"

Kristin and he both covered their ears as a barrage of bullets whizzed over their heads. Sparks rained on their shoulders, and Kristin silently thanked God they were drenched from head to toe in filthy water.

"Anyway, it's a good thing I showed up!" Holmes continued. They were cowering behind an overturned wooden canoe in the underground tunnels of London, backs pressed against the hull of the two person boat as machine gun fire rained all around them. "How did you expect to take on a force of this magnitude with a single pistol?"

"I didn't expect to be caught!" Kristin cried, seizing Holmes' hand and dragging him behind a broad metal pipe running parallel to the walls as another blast obliterated their previous hiding place, sending wood panels flipping across the condensed room. The pipe ran vertically, leaving Holmes and Kristin only enough room to stand squished together, Kristin with her back to the cold, moist metal and Holmes with his back pressed against Kristin's chest.

"I'm out of ammunition!" he shouted over the din of exploding weapons.

"Here," Kristin responded, tossing her own revolver over his shoulder. He caught it, whirled out from behind the pipe and unloaded two bullets into the chest of a masked enemy. Holmes quickly ducked back behind the pipe, this time facing Kristin, hot breath washing across her forehead, their bodies pressed close together as they hid. She handed him his revolver back, now fully loaded.

"Thank you, dear," he said sardonically. "Tell me, what would you do in this situation?" The middle of Holmes' sentence was interrupted as Kristin seized his arm, spun him around, and pulled the trigger of his gun, stopping a villain who had managed to sneak up on them in his tracks. Holmes blinked once, and then returned his gaze to Kristin whose face was pressed into his chest as they evaded the enemy's weapons. "Thank you, again."

Kristin turned so that she faced the pipe, relieving Holmes of one of the revolvers. She darted out from behind the tube, the sounds of numerous explosions accompanying her. Holmes watched in mild shock as she sidestepped through knee-deep water, shooting with astonishing accuracy at their enemies. She reached the other side of the tunnel and dove behind a curve in the sewer system, making eye contact with Holmes.

"I need a window!" she shouted across the underground river to Holmes as bullets ricocheted off of the metal passageway they were trapped in. Sherlock Holmes glanced around. Both of them were stuck in the downhill plane of the battle, an unpleasant place to be, especially if the mob you were attempting to stop possessed rapid-fire machine guns and an apparent unlimited supply of ammunition. Apart from randomly placed drainage pipes, there wasn't much in the way of cover. Windows would be irrefutably hard to obtain. Kristin covered her eyes as metal shards exploded through the air, tiny scratches appearing upon her exposed cheek and hand. Holmes flinched as gunfire hammered against the pipe he was stationed behind. How could they be this stuck?

Suddenly, an anguished cry ripped through the sewer, echoing against both Holmes' and Kristin's ears, and for a moment the assailing bullets ceased. Kristin ripped a pin from a tiny grenade (which, apparently, she had been holding for some time now) with her teeth and, leaning around the metal corner she had been taking refuge in, threw it with all her might. She ducked back inside and covered her ears. Holmes simply crossed his arms and leaned against his cylindrical pipe, waiting.

"Kristin!"

Holmes' eyes flew open and he ducked out from behind his cover, looking upstream in complete shock. Watson was there, taking refuge in a similar way to Holmes while the mobsters set numerous rounds of bullets cascading into the pipe Watson hid behind.

"Watson!" Holmes cried out, taking a step in his direction.

Then the grenade went off.

The noise it produced reverberated throughout the sewer pipes, doubling back upon itself as if it would never end. Sound waves manifested themselves in the glassy surface of the water as ripples; the metal piping Holmes dove behind rang in response.

The grenade had been thrown in such a way that it obliterated a portion of a water pipe; and now, the monstrous amounts of liquid that the pipe had previously transported was gushing downhill at an alarming rate, carrying with it all of the men standing in the aboveground and their artillery – including Watson. Holmes felt something akin to worry nudge the back of his mind. How were they going to retrieve Watson without being swept away themselves? He looked across the way to Kristin, but was shocked to find her missing. Ahh, Holmes thought, spying a rusty iron ladder leading upward. He followed the unstable rungs upward and the across as the ladder turned into a rickety looking bridge. Kristin was hanging upside-down from it, knees securely wrapped around the iron bars, feet clinging to the rungs for security. Her eyes intently followed her father's downward descent. Fifty yards… Forty… Thirty… Fifteen…

"Doctor Watson!" she screamed above the pounding roar of the rushing whitewater. "Give me your hands!"

Watson looked up, sopping mustache and hair and frightened expression reminded Kristin of a drowned sewer rat she had seen on her way here. Ten yards. Five.

The two Watsons' hands connected and they squeezed tight, Kristin instantly seizing one wrist and one hand. Pain burst through her knees as the joints stretched with the added weight. A small gasp escaped her mouth as she clung desperately to her father's hands, and she began to pull him closer. If she could haul the majority of his body out of the water, the hard part would be over. Kristin, maintaining a firm grip upon his hand, released his wrist and made a grab for his elbow as Watson reached for hers in order to draw closer.

"Hold on!" Kristin cried, meeting her father's eyes. He nodded fervently, blue eyes wide and panicked; there wasn't much else he could do.

"Kristin!" Holmes bellowed, and she looked up, startled. He pointed downstream; Kristin followed his gaze. One of the henchmen, his face concealed by a black mask, was facing her, the barrel of a large rifle pointed directly at her. She squeezed her eyes shut as he pulled the trigger; but there was no bullet, no explosion, and no stark, violent pain that accompanied a gunshot wound. Kristin opened one eye.

"Wet powder," her father called up to her, their arms still linked, a relieved smile barely touching the corners of his mouth. Kristin returned the grin, momentarily distracted from her foes. It was a moment she would eternally regret.

"Kristin, look - !" Holmes bellowed once more, but a POW drowned the end of his sentence out. Throbbing hurt exploded through Kristin's left leg, and her eyes rolled into her head.

"Son of a…" she shouted, looked up at her mangled knee, blood pouring from an open wound just above the patella. What felt like fire rushed through her leg and unconscious tears dripped from her eyes. She looked down at her father, biting her tongue to keep from screaming. Blood from her leg leaked across her stomach in small beads, already dripping down her neck because of the way she was suspended.

"Sorry," she muttered, unable to hold herself any longer. Watson, about to say something, stopped mid comment as Kristin untangled her legs from the metal ladder and let them both fall. They landed in thigh deep water, current abated now that the initial pressure had expired, where Holmes was waiting. He seized Dr. Watson's shirt collar and pulled him to his feet, who in turn wrapped an arm around Kristin's waist and yanked her to her feet, placing her securely between himself and Holmes. Holmes and Kristin immediately lapsed into rapid, incomprehensible conversation about what to do next, while Dr. Watson choked back horrified tears, clinging to his daughter as tightly as he could. The group of three edged out of the river slowly to the eddy behind the corner that Kristin had thrown the grenade from and had initially climbed up the ladder in. The same ladder that turned horizontally also included a separate route leading upward, to the next level of the system; Holmes abandoned his post beside Kristin and jumped to the ladder, beginning to climb. Kristin went next, letting her left leg hang limply as she pulled herself upward with her arms. Dr. Watson followed, too shocked and frightened to speak. He was, after all, a father who had just witnessed his daughter being shot, and the idea of that awful bullet striking her a few feet lower plagued his vision.

"Look, Holmes! This was my plan all along! I _intended_ to blow up that waterline! That's why for three days now I've been trekking through these stupid sewers closing some valves and opening others! They're on a one-way trip into the icy waters of the Thames right now. If we run, we can still catch them where they'll drop into the river."

"You won't be running anywhere, Kristin!" Watson shouted, emerging from the manhole into the small concrete room where Holmes and Kristin were debating. Two sets of eyes turned to look at him in alarm, but he didn't care. All he saw was Kristin's blood, staining through the tweed of her light trousers, her lips slowly turning blue as the combined chill of London's winter and shock from her injury slowly attacked her resolve. She was shivering violently, but then again they all were; drenched in cold water and then thrown into an equally frosty room was never a good place to be.

"But dad!" Kristin moaned. She had propped herself against on of the walls, legs outstretched in front of her. Her brown hair had frozen into curly, tangled locks, one bobby pin barely holding bangs out of her eyes. Blood dotted her legs, torso and face. But those blue eyes were still glowing and full of energy and excitement. "This could possibly uncover the crime agency I've been hunting after for years! It will only take a moment, the Thames isn't too far – "

"Kristin, no!" Watson shrieked, shaking his head violently, voice echoing through the small room as he knelt beside Kristin's wounded knee. "Use logic! You're all about logic aren't you? What good would you do? If anything you're only more of a target now! You'd just be slowing Holmes down. You'll get another chance to catch them, Kristin! Jesus, just listen to me for once!" Tears were running from Watson's eyes as he shouted. For the first time in her life, Kristin had nothing to say. The only response came as a small whimper as her father ripped the bullet from her wound. Watson looked at Holmes, who surprisingly also remained quiet. "How did he manage to shoot?"

"He kept a small derringer concealed inside a watertight leather satchel. When his rifle failed, he retrieved it and fired. In that regard, we are fortunate. The delay in his shooting increased the distance from which he was required to fire, and it was necessary he use a low caliber weapon."

"Fortunate!" Watson scoffed, pouring an iodine solution into the small bullet hole. Kristin grimaced as the mixture stung her sensitive nerves. "Fortunate is hardly the word."

"Kristin," Holmes said slowly, ignoring Watson's comment. "Where in the Thames are they going to come out?"

"Near Battersea Park," Kristin replied, eyes squeezed tightly shut as Watson continued to doctor her wound. Holmes rubbed his chin.

"Go home," he suggested thoughtfully. "I will meet you there to discuss what I have learned."

"The hell you will!" Watson growled, synching the bandage around Kristin's leg tight. Her eyes flew open at the sharp sensation. "You are going to stay far away from my house, my daughter, and my family! Do you hear that Holmes? Far away!"

"Watson, you're being hysterical…" Holmes said gently, attempting to place his hand upon his friend's shoulder. Watson's eyes flashed as he slapped Holmes away.

"I'm hysterical! Damn well I'm hysterical. My eldest daughter almost _died _tonight Holmes. I almost died tonight. If it were not for you, we would be home by the fire eating a handmade dinner! I wouldn't have had to doctor Kristin for a gunshot wound, that's for sure. Go; catch your criminals. You had better hurry or you'll miss them."

Holmes almost looked offended. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but then, appearing to think better of it, turned and walked up the nearby stairs to the street, headed to Battersea Park. Moonlight glittered in Kristin's eyes as she watched him go, finally letting exhaustion and anguish wash over her.

"Come on, darling," Watson said gently, demeanor instantly softening, anger giving way to fatherly worry and affection. "Let's go home." Kristin looked back into her father's kind, loving gaze and nodded. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and he grasped her waist firmly. He lifted her to her feet, and slowly the two Watsons made their way home to Cavendish Place.


	9. Chapter 8 Jacks of All Trades

Chapter 8

The gentle notes of a silver flute wafted quietly in and out of the rooms of Cavendish Place, enticing fictitious maidens to creep into the open, held blissfully by the pleasing, harmonious Celtic melody bouncing gaily off of the light blue walls, reverberating through the stairs and the hall, weaving itself into everything, the carpets, the pots and pans hanging from hooks in the kitchen, and into the morose hearts of the residents. It was an old tune that was being played, merry and smooth in its nature, a piece entitled "Five Jumps." The maids continued to dance behind Kristin's closed eyelids as her fingers flew over the well oiled keys, prompting images of rolling green fields, galloping ponies, and fresh mountain air, all the while distracting her from the pain coursing through her knee; well, that could have been the morphine, too. Sweet, sugary notes flew from her flute as she played, dreaming up delightfully realistic fantasies on the subject of Ireland, the country she had always wished to visit. A smile, as much as could be mustered with the flute pressed to her lower lip, graced the corners of her mouth.

She heard the door to her room open, but didn't acknowledge the fact. She kept her eyes closed as she played, sliding into a new piece; a song entitled "The Pavee Jig," tempo increasing ever so slightly. Watson shut the door and waited quietly as she played, admiring the beautiful melody that flowed from the small silver instrument. His gaze slid to Kristin face. The majority of scars had vanished, and she looked so peaceful that it was almost impossible to tell that only one night ago she had been engaged in a firefight, rescued him from being washed into the Thames River, and stopped a felony from occurring. He waited to speak until the flute left her lips and her eyes opened, revealing alert blue irises.

"Father," she said pleasantly, cradling her beloved instrument in her lap as she spoke. Watson smiled and nodded.

"Hello, Kristin," he answered, walking to his daughter's bedside. "How do you feel?"

"Fine," she responded, barely flinching as Watson carefully unwrapped her wounded knee. She watched the process intently. "Naturally, my left leg is a bit sore."

"Naturally," Watson muttered, grimacing as he unveiled the bullet hole. Watson had experienced appalling wounds before; a man who's head had been speared by a railroad peg brought into his practice screaming that he could see God and He was beautiful; the birth of his fourth child, Annabel, who had been removed via cesarean section operation; Holmes' shoulder after Moriarty had suspended him from a meat hook. But none of those, though far more ghastly than a gunshot wound, could compare with the queasiness brought on by examining his own daughter's injury. He had been shot before and knew the pain it entailed. The psychological recovery would take months. "Have you been feeling nauseous, lightheaded, or have you experienced any tingling in your extremities?"

"Only last night," Kristin said thoughtfully. "Although, I would imagine that such symptoms would be normal under the circumstances."

"They are," Watson stated, dropping her old, dirty bandages into a bowl of bleach. "But if they are extreme and persistent, it could be indicative of something else."

"Something else being infection. Or shock," Kristin supplied cheerfully. Watson sighed.

"Yes, or something."

Silence reigned as Watson rewrapped Kristin's bandage with fresh white gauze.

"Kristin," he said slowly. "I have been thinking about all this…"

"Here we go again," she muttered, interrupting her father mid-sentence. He sighed.

"Kristin, it's not safe for you to pursue this life. This was only your first case with Holmes, and look at the outcome! Kristin, you have to start thinking rationally! You're a young lady, and a small lady at that. Kristin, look at me!" Watson cried as his daughter turned her attention to her bedside window. "_Look_ at me! Please!" Reluctantly, she faced Watson again, who was now leaning forward with his hands flat on Kristin's bed, exasperation evident in his expression. "You're too fragile for this, " he continued gently when he had gained her audience. "Last night was just an example. I only have one of you," Watson whispered, making eye contact with her, and he was shocked to find tears glistening in her sapphire blue eyes. Up until then, he had thought of his daughter as unreservedly emotionless; he wasn't sure if his speech had brought about the tears or she was angry, but the confirmation that she did have some feeling made Watson at least a little stronger in his resolve. But her response stunned him.

"I wouldn't have been shot if I hadn't had to rescue _you_."

Watson flinched. He stood back from her bed, hurt leaking across his face. She stared back frostily, anger obvious in every feature. _'Don't cry! Don't cry,'_ Watson thought to himself, swallowing. He narrowed his eyes, but found no decent reply. So he returned to the only thing he understood for certain: doctoring wounds. An icy silence persisted as Watson finished with Kristin's bandages.

"You're lucky. The bullet did not penetrate deeply; for the caliber weapon it was, you were too far away for it to do much harm. Your knee was – thankfully – left unharmed."

Kristin nodded.

"I assumed as much. I can move my leg; it's just sore. When can I leave the house?"

Watson's mouth fell open resentfully.

"Kristin!" he cried, frustrated. "After all this you _still_ intend to get yourself killed! I've put up with this for long enough! _Too _long! I – "

"When can I leave the house?" Kristin interjected, glaring insensitively at Watson. His fists clenched in defiance.

"As far as I'm concerned, you – "

"Yes, when can she leave the house?"

"Holmes!" Kristin called out as Watson nearly jumped out of his skin in surprise. "How pleasant of you to join us!"

"You… How did you get in here?" Watson demanded of the ragged looking man exiting Kristin's closet, his rage momentarily abated by curiosity.

"Quite simply, actually. I used a trapdoor installed in the ceiling by Miss Watson," Holmes said. Dark circles lined his eyes and his suit was covered in mud and who-knows-what, but other than these damages he appeared presentable enough. Watson looked between Kristin and Holmes in disbelief, threw his arms in the air, shouting unintelligible obscenities to no one in particular and stormed out, followed by the sounds of things breaking.

"Poor, Watson," Holmes said quietly, and then, as if an afterthought, shouted, "Bring us a brandy when you return, old chap!" He then turned his attention to Kristin. He shifted between his feet awkwardly, uncomfortable under her all-knowing, even gaze. He tried to concoct an ordinary, socially satisfactory question regarding her well-being but, drawing a blank on how to phrase it, cleared his throat and instead asked, "How many 'Jacks' do you know?"

"Personal acquaintances or world-wide?"

"Personal acquaintances," Holmes decided amiably, clasping his arms behind his back whilst gazing intently in Kristin's direction.

"Four, why do you ask?"

"It is my belief," Holmes began in a tone indicative of a long lecture, "that I have finally placed a name with the underground guild we have long been investigating. They call themselves the "Jacks of All Trades," and, like most sinister, annoying criminal societies, believe that they can take over the world." As Holmes had been talking, he had moved to the window through with midday sunlight was streaming. The glow illuminated his face, causing sparks to dance in his eyes and his dark hair to look as if it had flecks of red. The sun shed warm rays upon Holmes' starved pale skin, turning his pallid lips a healthy shade of pink. He could almost be considered handsome, Kristin thought, if viewed from the proper angle. She tilted her head this way and that, struggling to find that angle. Holmes turned his gaze to her, the warm glow now lighting only half of his grizzled features. He observed her for a moment, and then continued. "Our masked sewer friends we encountered last night were part of that movement. I intercepted them crawling out of the Thames precisely where you indicated, and had the immense pleasure of making that particular gang's leader's – the one who shot you – acquaintance. Unfortunately, his aquatic journey through the sewers left his lungs satiated with water, and I procured minimal evidence before he – regrettably – left us."

"Which Jack was that?" Kristin questioned.

"He had not 'earned' his 'Jack' yet, as it were. I believe that people wishing to join the tribe must first prove themselves in some heinous way; which our friend was trying to do by attacking a congregation of good Christians."

"So this cult," Kristin began, "goes by the name "Jacks of All Trades," and is plotting to take over the world. They initiate new members by asking them to commit devious terrorist attacks. Such an amusing case this is." Kristin and Holmes both chuckled; any sane person would have been hopelessly confused about what was funny, considering they had just unmasked a violent faction with the goal of world domination. "How many 'Jacks' are we talking about?"

"That is what we must learn," Holmes replied, dragging a chair beside Kristin's pillow and taking a seat. "We also must learn who their leader is; I know his pseudonym is 'The Jack of All Trades,' but I highly doubt his parents christened him that at birth." Kristin nodded in agreement, the wheels in her mind spinning rapidly as they processed this new information.

"Fascinating," she thought aloud.

"What's fascinating?" demanded a voice from the doorway. Both Holmes and Kristin turned toward the voice.

"Ahh, Watson! So good to see your interest piqued. Come in, have a seat." Holmes slid to the most left ledge of the chair, as if making room for his old comrade. Reluctantly, Watson paced into the room and sat upon the chair with Holmes, who smiled in sarcastic glee. "You forgot the brandy, old boy!"

"I make a point not to drink in front of my family," Watson mumbled, blue eyes unmoved. Holmes blinked, as if the notion was completely bizarre to him.

"What a strange principle!" Holmes cried loudly. "Watson, I'm astounded that you are yet unaware of your own daughter's drinking habits! Why, when I entered her room the first thing I noticed was the sultry scent of red wine!"

Watson looked up at Kristin, eyes defeated.

"You drink as well, now?"

Kristin shrugged, betraying her indifference, mind still wrapped around their newest case.

"No matter," Holmes said, reaching under Kristin's bed to retrieve a half full bottle filled with cherry red liquid. He pulled the cork out with his teeth, offering the glass to Watson, who dejectedly shook his head. Holmes shrugged, spit the cork away and took a long swig of wine himself. "Anyway, where were we?"

"You were explaining to me what was so fascinating."

"Ahh, yes." Holmes passed the alcohol to Kristin before leaning closer to Watson. "A most intriguing case has arisen of the most devious nature. An extremist group intends to take over the world."

"They call themselves the "Jack of All Trades," Kristin said for what felt like the hundredth time. "Each of their members are inaugurated after performing a felony crime and given a 'Jack' name. At least that's what we have gathered so far. We have no idea who their leader is, or where the Jacks are stationed."

"So basically you have nothing at all to go on, and you're going on a wild goose chase across London to find these… 'Jacks?'" Watson asked in disbelief. He shook his head, looking at Kristin. "You're more insane than I thought."

"Not just London, my friend!" Holmes cried, lurching to his feet as a falcon swooped by Kristin's window. His eyes followed it with intense curiosity. Such a curious specimen, Holmes thought. What bird would consider London buildings an adequate roost? He watched in fascination as the elegant bird alighted in the window frame above Kristin's. "The great continent of Europe!"

"All of Europe? That certainly narrows it down," Watson grumbled sarcastically. "Any idea on where you're going to start?"

"Ireland, dear Watsons!" Holmes cried dramatically, turning at the sound of wine spluttering out of Kristin's mouth as she choked. "Ireland calls us to Her."


	10. Chapter 9 Strange Developements

Chapter 9

"The RMS Titanic," Holmes called over the din of welding tools, burly men shouting orders to one another, and pounding jackhammers. Feet clattered across the scaffolding above their heads. "Soon to be the one of the largest vessels of Britain's White Star Line fleet, along with the RMS Olympic and the HMHS Britannic."

"'They're hailing her as the unsinkable ship," Watson commented, tapping the steel hull with his cane thoughtfully. Holmes gave a cynical snort.

"Nonsense, Watson," he corrected. "No ship could be made so as to be perfectly sound under all circumstances. I wager that an iceberg of considerable mass and weight would render this vessel useless. It takes an attentive crew to sail a liner, not a team of cocky engineers."

Watson remained silent, choosing not to argue with his friend. He scratched his head, looking around for Kristin. She had run ahead and was deep in conversation with a sandy haired boy who appeared to be only a few years older than her. He was dressed poorly in simple slacks, a white cotton shirt and suspenders. Watson sighed; Kristin had a knack for picking out the oddballs. He shook his head and walked toward them.

"My name is Jack," Watson heard the lad say, American accent tainting his voice. Unless he had been looking for it, Watson would have missed Kristin's slight head tilt at the name.

"Fascinating," his daughter responded. "Well, Jack," she continued, looking down at a crumpled ticket. "It appears that we are both headed for Dublin!"

Jack's eyes lit up and Watson, who had not quite reached the pair yet, glowered. Even if his daughter was a budding detective, Watson's paternal instincts required that he detest all young men who showed interest in his daughter.

"Miss Watson," he said, finally arriving at her side. "Your companions are waiting."

Kristin flashed a dazzling smile at Jack.

"Maybe I'll see you on board, then, Jack!" she giggled. Watson rolled his eyes. He couldn't believe that his otherwise stoic daughter was flirting with this ruffian kid she'd just met on the docks. Kristin, dressed in a flattering purple dress, linked her arm through her fathers as they walked off.

"You sure know how to pick 'em," Watson muttered as they strode away. When he looked down at his daughter, he was shocked to discover her expression, dreamy and girlish only moments before, had returned to its usual impassive appearance. Her brow was furrowed, as it always was when she was thinking, and Watson gazed down into her face, waiting for her to speak.

"Hmm," Kristin agreed, and Watson sighed, feeling that there would be nothing further spoken on he subject. But as usual he was wrong. "Cracker Jack, Jack O'Lantern, Jack Frost, Jumping Jack, Calico Jack, Jack Russell. Black Jack, Jack Sprat, Jack in the Box, Jack Be Nimble. Jackhammer, Jack Dandy, Jack B. Nimble. He could be any of them."

"How do you know for certain that he is one of _the _Jacks? Couldn't he just simply be a young lad named Jack heading to Ireland?"

Kristin shook her head vehemently.

"No," answered Holmes' voice. Watson looked over his shoulder. "While your daughter so cleverly distracted him, I constituted a thorough examination. A small tattoo just behind his left ear is what initially gave him away; it was in the shape of a 'J' enclosed by a circle with a triangle touching three points on the outer ring. I found a drawing of this symbol in the notebook our sewer friend carried. His body was unnaturally toned for the average hooligan, indicating that he has been ready trained for combat. Also, his hair was dyed to that sandy blonde color; he's in disguise. Obviously, someone is looking for him."

"Right," Kristin agreed, nodding her head. Silence fell between the trio as Holmes and Kristin contemplated their latest discovery. Saltwater scent mixed with the smell of seafood creating a distinctive pier aroma. The widest array of people Kristin had ever encountered patrolled this wharf; ragged homeless men begging for food to rich governors with automobiles, honking frantically. Money was exchanged, beers were drunk, gamblers placed outrageous bets, captains shouted orders to their men as gigantic liners thundered out of the port, metal clinked as royals ate on pure silver in nearby restaurants, a nearby scuffle brought the sound of fists cascading toward Kristin, grubby dirt flew around the feet of horses, luggage carriers tossed heavy bags to and fro –

"It's a sensory overload, isn't it?" Kristin jumped at the sound of Holmes' voice in her ear. She hadn't realized how close he had gotten to her until that moment; his lips tickled the edges of her ear, his hand rested on her upper arm as he leaned over her from behind. Her father had gone ahead to sort out their luggage situation. "I can tell you think like me," Holmes continued into her ear. "You see _everything. _You hear _everything._ The honey glaze from that bakery." Holmes pointed to a small shop father down the boardwalk. "The cheating." Their eyes flicked to a group of men playing cards, one of the players with an ace up his sleeve. "The crime. The lies." Holmes seized Kristin's shoulders and spun her around so that their faces were mere inches from each other. Once again, brown eyes met blue as they stared into each other's minds. "But, like me, you miss beautiful things." Kristin began to tremble slightly under the weight of Holmes' gaze. _What is she thinking? _**What's going on in his head? **_She is so young; does she sincerely have the skills needed to live a life the way I do? _**How can I possibly measure up to the great Sherlock Holmes? **_Is it wrong to feel concerned for her safety? _**Certainly I'm as smart as him, but I lack the experience. **_Don't be ridiculous, Holmes, you need to concentrate on the case. You're letting your emotions get the better of you. _**Why am I shaking? **_But still… _**Who **_**is **_**this man? **_Remember Irene! Remember what happened with Irene!_

Holmes released Kristin's arms and stepped back. For the first time since he had met her, she looked slightly frightened. _Curious, _Holmes thought with finality, ignoring the goose bumps rising on his arms, turning on his heel and walking away. Kristin stood motionless upon the undulating dock, startled to find a bead of sweat rolling down her forehead. Her breathing was labored as she slowly made her way after Holmes, a new question ringing in her head, drowning out the others – Who was Sherlock Holmes, really?


End file.
